


knight in shining armour

by theholyjuggernaut



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Caring Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Friendship, Gen, Guilty Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Low-key romantic tension, implied pining, merlin whump, the classic: merlin gets hurt by a visiting prince and arthur feels guilty about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholyjuggernaut/pseuds/theholyjuggernaut
Summary: “I want him to wake up.”Gaius patted Arthur’s shoulder. “In time, Sire.”-Merlin gets hurt by a visiting prince, and Arthur bears the guilt.Set around season four.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 484





	knight in shining armour

**Author's Note:**

> it's great how the merlin fandom is still alive and kicking!  
> gotta love that good hurt/comfort...

If Arthur knew anything at all, anything that was right with the world, it was his unruly, sarcastic, perplexingly wise manservant. No matter the ailment or suffering, bruising or pain, tomorrow was a new day. And with morning promptly arrived Merlin, gallivanting gracelessly through the king’s chambers. 

He would fling the royal curtains wide and call out some absurd saying, Arthur would throw something at him, and then Merlin would dart away to indignantly fetch his breakfast. Undoubtedly, the king would catch his heavy-footed friend grinning cheekily as he muttered something impertinent under his breath. Insults were exchanged, food was served, and the day went on. 

No real harm was done. And certainly, if either of them _were_ to be harmed, they should negotiate before it kicked them in the teeth like a wild stallion. 

Arthur rather liked his mornings with Merlin, along with the absurd (or “improper,” according to Agravaine) dynamic they shared. It was one of the few things that had not changed when he was crowned king. So, by now, he’d like to pride himself in knowing when something was amiss. But Merlin acted strangely most of the time, so it was only a mild surprise that he was late that day.

It reminded Arthur of his time as prince, when the boy was nearly impossible to find around the castle, assisted by Gaius’ shoddy attempts at covering for him. Wherever he went, whatever he did, Arthur was resigned to never know. 

His manservant was “a riddle wrapped up in a mystery” as the old physician often referred to him, and the king was inclined to agree. He had never quite unwrapped the enigma that was Merlin. With time, the young man’s reckless naivete subdued ever-so-slightly with the responsibilities of kingship now resting on both of their shoulders. 

Not that Arthur would ever admit it, but it was comforting to not face such stress alone. 

The king had woken by himself that morning, a rare thing indeed. It had been ages since Merlin neglected to rise him, he thought, mildly surprised. The pleasant aroma of fresh bread and sausages made him quirk an eyebrow as he shuffled drowsily over to the table. Who had brought this? Perhaps his lousy excuse of a manservant had somewhere more important to be than assisting the king of Camelot. 

“Merlin?” Arthur called, rubbing a hand down his face. 

He inhaled deeply. 

“Merlin!” 

The empty room offered no sarcastic reply of _Yes, Sire!_ or _Coming right away, my lord._ Disappointment settled in Arthur’s bones, and he sat down to eat. As his sleepy haze lifted, he remembered miserably: The visiting lords arrived three days ago. More notably, Prince Lilian of Meccia. 

The prince had been quite adamant about his accommodations during his stay in Camelot, working the kitchen staff to the bone as they prepared his requested dishes from dusk to dawn. He came from one of the outlying northern kingdoms, bringing with him a rather confusing set of customs and a thick, grandiose accent. 

Arthur tried to like him at first, he really did. Perhaps it was his sporadic appetite that enraged the kitchen girls, or the way he bumbled about the castle like it was his own that put the king off getting along with him. It took less than an hour for Arthur to realize that Lilian was far too old to be a prince, and too immature to be a king. 

The king sighed. Perhaps Merlin was assisting one of their guests, something he was rather annoyed at when he thought on it. The personal manservant of the king himself should not be bound to serve the other lords. They should have servants of their own, he thought, with a flash of jealousy. 

A boring quarter-hour later, the door to Arthur’s chambers creaked open. The king sat at his desk, sloppily dressed with his hair unkempt as he read through a stack of royal statements. He leaned back in his chair and frowned, “Decided to have a lie-in, Merlin?” 

But it wasn’t his manservant.

“You’re going to be late for your counsel.” 

Guinevere approached Arthur’s desk, raising an eyebrow. Then, noticing the state of him, she crossed the room to retrieve a comb, along with his chestnut jacket. The king smiled fondly at her, before letting his exasperation overtake him. “Have you seen Merlin at all?” 

Gwen brushed the comb through his rumpled hair. “Merlin?”

“Usually I am at least _witness_ to his incompetence, but he didn’t show up this morning.” Arthur gestured at the dirty plates on the dining table, “Except for that, it seems. For someone so clumsy, he manages to creep about like a ghost nowadays.” 

“Well, why don’t you just send for him?” Gwen smiled, lifting Arthur to his feet. “I trust you can do the jacket on your own, darling?” she teased. He begrudgingly tugged his arms through both sleeves before departing his room, queen at his side. 

One mundane counsel session later, and Merlin was still nowhere to be seen. Gaius was off doing his rounds, as per usual, so when Arthur checked in his chambers, they were completely barren. He could feel his temper rising with each hour that passed. 

After training with the knights, Arthur caught Gwaine on his way off the field. “If you see Merlin at the tavern, ask him if he fancies polishing the _entire armoury.”_

His friend grimaced, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Rough morning, Princess?” 

Arthur mumbled something about inept manservants as he stomped towards the castle. 

It was evening before Arthur finally caught sight of Gaius. He walked with purpose into his chambers, unbeknownst to the king trailing behind him. Perhaps he would finally figure out what those two had been hiding. 

The tavern was completely off the list now–Merlin couldn’t handle the meer whiff of a barmaid’s apron; he and the knights had found that out after a particularly entertaining game of dice. Arthur somehow wished he’d see Merlin like he was then–hungover to hell in his bed and whining like a little girl–to at least know _where_ he was. But he was not in his chambers, and Gaius seemed just as perplexed as Arthur was. 

“My apologies, Sire. He left before I woke.” 

“What’s he doing?” the king asked, knitting his brows together. 

“He has been quite busy with the other lords. Perhaps the Prince Lilian?” 

Arthur groaned in frustration, and turned heel back to his chambers. 

A young serving girl brought Arthur his dinner that evening. He looked up at her, resigned. “Can not _one_ person in this castle locate the whereabouts of my useless manservant?” 

She positioned his silverware on the table and poured him some wine. “Sorry, Sire. I’m sure he’s assisting one of the other lords.” 

He paused. “Have _you_ seen him?”

“No, Sire.” 

Arthur felt tired and disappointed. It pained him to admit, but Merlin’s constant prattle did provide him comfort; a sense of normality that was now lacking greatly. Gods, what was wrong with him? Could he not handle a single day without his gangly manservant? It was pathetic.

He waved the serving girl away.

“Thank you, you’re dismissed.” 

A childish part of Arthur hoped Merlin would have to take the dishes away in the morning. That was, if he showed up at all. 

Two more days passed, and Merlin seemed to be able to evade any possibility of interaction whatsoever with Arthur. His breakfast still showed up before he woke, his room was cleaned (in a mediocre fashion, so Arthur knew it was his manservant that did so), and the stables were mucked out. It was halfway through the afternoon on the third day that the king’s patience snapped. Prince Lilian was definitely hogging his manservant, and it was going to end _now_. 

Arthur stormed down the halls, trying to remember which room the prince was currently transforming into a cesspool. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath as he stood in front of the door. 

Knocking sharply, he called out, “Merlin?” 

No answer. The king decided to take a risk, and opened the door. So be it if Prince Lilian was offended. This had to stop. 

He stepped inside, rather disappointed at how empty it was. The prince really didn’t carry anything with him besides food and an uncomfortable amount of frilly garments. Everything he cared to own was on his person, or in his stomach. The room echoed slightly as he called out Merlin’s name once more. 

Arthur checked the antechamber, the closet, and under the bed for good measure. He wouldn’t put it past Merlin to be in any of those places. Feeling ridiculous, he stood up straight and made his way back to the entrance. “I’m losing my mind,” he told himself. 

Just as he went to open the doors, they swung open without warning. 

“You little _brat–!”_ came a very displeased, thick-accented voice that followed a muffled groan of pain.

Arthur shuffled back in surprise as two figures swiftly entered the room, one of them being pulled by a dirty sleeve. The familiar mop of black hair and red neckerchief were unmistakable. And the arm that held him roughly in place was as loathsome as Arthur remembered the past week. 

He stared with wide eyes as Prince Lilian gaped at him. 

Merlin shoved himself away from the larger man, exhaling shakily through his mouth. For a still moment, they looked at each other breathlessly, and Arthur assessed the situation. His manservant had a nasty splotch of green on the side of his jaw, and what looked like fingernail marks on his neck. Not to mention the fact that he was shifting his weight anxiously on one side, as if he would limp if he were to walk. 

Rage burned through Arthur, who slowly turned his eyes back on the wrongdoer. Prince Lilian gulped visibly, wiping his hands nervously on his too-small trousers. His beady pupils darted back and forth, as if the king’s stare was enough to make him fear for his life. It should, Arthur thought furiously as he stepped toward the hefty imbecile. 

“Guards!” he called out, keeping a level tone despite his anger. A moment later, two guards appeared in the door. Arthur kept eye contact with Lilian as he said, “Seize him.” 

“Is he to be taken to the dungeon, Sire?”

“Yes,” Arthur answered.

“No, no, no–you don’t know what you’re doing! I am crown Prince of Meccia! You cannot do this!” The man shrieked like a child as he was restrained and pulled hastily out of the room. 

A voice that sounded like Morgana reverberated through his conscience: Yes, he was royalty, but damn the consequences. Merlin was bruised and bloodied because of that man, and since Arthur was king now, he would do what he saw fit; condemning the prince to a darkened, rotting cell beneath the castle. 

He turned his attention back to his manservant, who was glowering–with a rather glazed look in his eyes–at the door even after the guards and their new prisoner departed. Arthur was at his side in an instant, placing an arm around his waist. Merlin let out a muted whimper and tried to push him away. 

“Arthur. . .” he mumbled, eyelids heavy and intoxicated, “stop it.” 

The king failed to swallow the concern welling in his throat. 

“It’s all right, Merlin. Let’s go find Gaius.” 

By the time they reached Gaius’ chambers, Gwaine, Percival, and Lancelot were at Arthur’s side. Vengeance-hungry demands from the knights were made almost immediately, ones Arthur was eager to accommodate, but Merlin’s wellbeing came before anything else. And at the moment, he wasn’t looking too good. 

His eyes had rolled up in his head the moment they stepped out of Lilian’s chambers, so Arthur had to lift up his legs and carry him down three flights of stairs. It wasn’t too much trouble considering his manservant’s gaunt frame, and Arthur would’ve been grateful for that fact if Merlin didn’t weigh any more than two bushels of wheat. It was quite concerning, really. 

With Merlin’s face so close now, the king could clearly see the damage that had been done. There was a rather painful-looking indent on his cheek that looked like it came from a ring, and above his left eye were the startings of a fresh bruise. It made sense to Arthur why Merlin made himself so scarce now. He probably didn’t want to bring attention to himself. 

The young physician was one of the bravest people he’d ever met, so Arthur doubted he was doing it out of honor or shame. Merlin often ranted on about the knights and their so-called pride that made it too difficult for them to accept defeat. So it obviously wasn’t from that. The other option was that Merlin didn’t want to trouble the king with his problems, which Arthur had a hard time believing. Merlin was honest, and clever, and undeniably loyal. 

But, when the king got to thinking about it–would his manservant have come to him about this? And more importantly, had this happened before, right under his nose? Did Guinevere know? 

Arthur sighed, conflicted by a new wave of emotions. 

“Sire, who did this to him?” asked Lancelot, who looked nearly as concerned as the king felt. 

“Prince Lilian. I caught him dragging Merlin into his chambers.” 

A dark look crossed Gwaine’s face, clearly about to say something, but Arthur cut him off early.

“I will deal with him later,” he said sharply. 

The knight nodded, opening the door to Gaius’ chambers. 

The old physician was present–thank the gods!–when Arthur and the knights arrived. He was ambling about his room with a odd-shaped flask and a handful of herbs, sporting a very focused expression. The moment he saw Merlin, huddled against Arthur’s chest, he quickly placed down his things and rushed them over to the bed. 

“What happened?” Gaius asked, walking hurriedly to a tall cupboard where bandages were stored. He approached Merlin as if he was trying to examine him as a simple patient, but the worried look in his eyes said otherwise. Arthur stared hard at the physician, guilt welling up in his chest. 

“Prince Lilian.”

“Help me off with his tunic,” Gaius ordered. He looked up from Merlin, raising an eyebrow expectantly at Arthur, then at the knights crowding around the bed. “It would be most appropriate if we could have some privacy.” 

Arthur glanced at his men. “Go about your day as usual. Prince Lilian is not to be released under any circumstance, is that understood?” 

Percival nodded firmly. “Yes, Sire.” 

Gwaine stared at Merlin with a pained look on his face as Lancelot tugged on his shoulder. The three knights left, albeit hesitantly. Arthur and Gaius went about removing the manservant’s tunic and shirt, revealing a ghastly array of injuries on his chest. 

The physician examined Merlin and had Arthur put bandages around his torso. The king was feverishly counting the number of bruises on his manservant’s thin form. Lilian will pay for this dearly, he promised. Merlin–kind, sweet Merlin–should never be in such a state, especially in a castle that was supposed to be his home. 

“He’s been drugged, I can say as much,” Gaius said once he was done patching Merlin up. Arthur stunned, fire in his eyes. “Drugged!” 

It made enough sense–the glazed eyes, the way his body went limp in his arms (although the king believed that to be more because of the bruised ribs and such). Gods, Arthur was supposed to protect Merlin. How had this happened? Damn Merlin for not trusting Arthur enough to come to him. Damn himself for not seeing it. 

“Yes, Sire,” Gaius said warily. Arthur did not look at him, keeping his gaze steady on his manservant’s unconscious form. The old physician sat down next to him, and the king almost wanted to curse himself for being so easy to read. Was it so hard to admit that he cared about Merlin? Or was it simply that Gaius had known him so long as to realize when he was feeling anguished? 

“He’s stronger than you give him credit for.” 

The king’s jaw clenched, because he knew. Merlin–the peasant boy from Ealdor, and later royal servant–could be braver and more courageous than the entire army of Camelot. As long as he was at Arthur’s side, then they could overcome anything. Beasts and wizards and immortal armies. 

“I want him to wake up.”

Gaius patted Arthur’s shoulder. “In time, Sire.”

Merlin was sober when he came to; at least Arthur assumed he was, since he was acting as awkward as regular old Merlin, anyway. The moment his manservant’s eyes opened, he weakly groaned, “Wha–?” 

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “Do you remember what happened?” 

He furrowed his brows, huffing out a painful-looking exhale, and tried to push himself up on his elbows. Immediately, Merlin realized his mistake, and hissed in pain at his bruised ribs. “Ow.”

Arthur frowned at him. “Don’t do that, you idiot.” 

“Sorry?” Merlin supplied, lips curling up slightly. “Prince Lilian, was it?” he asked in a resigned way that implied he already knew the answer. Merlin’s eyes filled with realization, then guilt. “Please tell me you didn’t lock him up.”

Arthur blanched, offended more for Merlin’s sake than his own. “Excuse me? What would you rather I have done?” 

Merlin picked at the bandages on his chest, trying to look under them. “The treaty with Meccia could bring prosperity to Camelot, surely you’re aware of that.”

“Yes, well. . . that’s not happening any time soon. Especially with you unable to perform your duties because of what he did to you. You’re aware of that, no? Or shall I list off your injuries?” 

Merlin looked down, ashamed, eyes filling with something that made Arthur immediately regret his words. That look should not be on his manservant’s face. It wasn’t right. Arthur leaned forward, placing a hand on the young man’s knee. 

“Merlin. Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop it.”

His friend looked up at him tiredly, pushing a small smile. His bruises were fading, which meant they had been there for quite some time before the prince was arrested. Arthur’s heart clenched. “And what am I thinking, my lord?” 

The king leaned back in his chair, slightly exasperated at his friend’s difficulty. He paused for a moment, pretending to think about it. “That. . .I’m a prat, probably.” 

Merlin snorted, “Well, actually, you were quite the knight in shining armour today–it is still today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Merlin, it’s still today.” 

Merlin sighed and said softly, “Good, then I can still finish my chores for this evening.”

The king stared at him, mouth hanging open. “You never fail to baffle me, Merlin,” he said, which really meant: You’re a much bigger fool than I’d realized, Merlin. 

His manservant squinted at him, lip curling in offense. “I’m not a fool.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Of course you’re not.” And in truth, it wasn’t a lie. Merlin was possibly one of the most clever people Arthur had ever met. “But you’re not leaving this room until you’ve recovered. In fact, I’m not sure you’re even capable of getting out of this bed.”

Merlin didn’t seem to have a retort for that, so he simply pouted and looked down at his hands. Probably because he couldn’t physically do much else. 

Something inside the king tightened as he stared at Merlin’s bruised profile. “Gwen, Gwaine, and Lancelot came by to see you, as well as some of the other knights. Gaius had to go into the lower town for a bit, but he assured me you’ll make a full recovery. That is if you don’t do anything foolish until then.” 

Merlin didn’t answer. He simply nodded, eyes closing in the process. A soft exhale escaped his lips, which somehow made him look smaller than the king remembered. Merlin easily held an inch or two above Arthur, but in the moment he looked like the young peasant boy who saved his life many, many years ago. 

Arthur placed his hand on Merlin’s calf, letting it linger for a moment longer than probably acceptable for a king and his servant. But neither of them cared. From the beginning, Merlin always made Arthur question the importance of Camelot’s old beliefs.

“You’re safe now, Merlin,” he assured. “I will not overlook this.”

His manservant shifted an arm from his lap to where Arthur was gripping his calf, which compelled Arthur to put his hand on top of Merlin’s. His hands were rather elegant–long, pale fingers that contrasted his role as a servant. 

The young physician rarely fought bandits with his hands, or did much hard labor (despite his argument of mucking out the stables) that grew calluses or blisters. But he was stronger now, certainly. His shoulders were wider, his chest broader, and jawline sharper. Arthur once asked Merlin to work out a knot in his back that left him sore the next day. He didn’t mention it often, unless asked directly, but his servant had certainly changed. 

So damn what anyone thought. Damn Lilian for hurting his one true friend. He gripped Merlin’s hand. “I’m fine, Arthur, really,” his manservant whispered without commitment. 

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes and argue with his implausible friend. “Get some rest,” he decided on. Then, feeling dissatisfied, he added, “That’s an order.” 

As the king left the room, he could swear he heard Merlin whisper, “Prat.” 


End file.
